


Leo Season

by AteYellowPaint



Series: Joger Week 2021 [6]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Coming of Age, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, M/M, Parental Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:47:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29231757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AteYellowPaint/pseuds/AteYellowPaint
Summary: August is a most unremarkable month.Afternoons stretch on endlessly, the sun beats down relentlessly, and a drowse settles over the earth, lulling the world into a lethargic haze.But for Roger and John, that unassuming mark in time is anything but. For through the years, August comes around bearing the gifts of friendship, tragedy, jealousy and trust, helping the pair learn what it means to love another unconditionally.
Relationships: John Deacon/Roger Taylor
Series: Joger Week 2021 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2136810
Comments: 18
Kudos: 25
Collections: Joger Week 2021





	Leo Season

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y’all! Day six of Joger week omg! Today I used the prompt “Childhood Friends AU”. Just a note, I use their real-life age gap in this story; so Roger is 7 and John is 5 when we meet them in August of 1956.

**♌︎ - 1956 -** **♌︎**

“Oi, kid, watch it!”

Roger planted his feet on the concrete, almost pitching forward off of his bike. He looked up and gave the gruff man a weak smile, but the stranger only rolled his eyes and continued lugging away the large blue couch that Roger was about to crash into.

Boxes and furniture littered the front lawn as people milled in and out of the two story house. Roger had heard his parents talk about the new family moving in and just had to see for himself. No one new had moved onto his street for as long as he remembered.

On the front porch he could see a woman standing in front of the large window; she was talking with a man. Sweat drenched through her pink shirt and the baby in her arms grabbed at her blonde ponytail. The man gently unclenched the baby’s fist from around her hair as he scooped it into his arms.

That must have been the new family. Roger’s shoulder slumped. Fat load of good they would do for him.

He was about to kick off and ride back home to lament his lonely fate when someone else burst through the front door. A boy, maybe a bit younger than him, ran up to the man on the porch and pulled at his hand. He said something to the man, pointing at the moving truck, before he was sent off with a pat on the back.

The boy bounded down the steps of the porch and ran down the pathway until he was on the pavement. He stopped short once he finally noticed Roger gawking at him from beside the moving truck. From up close he could see the waves in the boy’s short brown hair, his straight nose that crinkled slightly when he looked at Roger, and his ears that looked a little too big for his head.

Roger finally remembered his manners. He gripped his handlebars a little bit tighter and gave a nervous smile as he said, “Hi.”

“Um. Hello.” The boy looked back at the porch. Roger followed his gaze and saw the boy’s parents watching them carefully. In the back of his head, he heard his mum’s voice reminding him to respect his elders, so he gave them a sunny wave before he turned back to the boy and asked the first question he could think of.

“Are you moving in?”

The boy cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes. He looked at Roger like he thought he might be just a little bit daft before he replied with a simple, “Yes.”

“Good! That’s good,” Roger said. “I live right up the street. I’m glad there’s finally another boy around here; I’m sick of playing with all the girls.”

“What’s wrong with girls?”

“Nothing, usually,” Roger said, “but none of them want to go exploring anymore and lately they keep trying to make me put on makeup.”

The boy looked like he was fighting back a giggle before he cast his eyes down at the pavement. He shrugged and said, “I like exploring.”

Roger smiled for real. “Great!”

When the boy picked his head back up, he was smiling, too.

**♌︎** **\- 1960 -** **♌︎**

John’s legs were screaming by the time he made it up the path to the lookout, but that paled in comparison to the elation he felt that he had finally beaten Roger to the top.

The lookout - really, it was a glorified car park - sat on the edge of their small town. It was a trek to get to from their street, but ever since they found it, it was their favorite place to go. They hadn’t once had someone come upon them while they played there and John sometimes thought it was well and truly forgotten. The grass was overgrown, only stamped down by his and Roger’s feet. The wooden fence enclosing the dropoff was starting to rot. The single picnic table was missing an entire bench.

Still, it was magical. The large tree sprung knotting roots that were perfect for climbing. The loose gravel made for great rock-throwing competitions off the side of the dropoff. And at sunset, they could see the entire town burn orange if they stood on top of the picnic table.

John planted his feet on the ground and swung his leg over his bike. He held on to his handlebars as he watched Roger appear, huffing and puffing in the stifling heat, over the crest of the hill.

Roger stopped beside him, his dusty converse kicking up the pebbles on the path.

“I let you win,” Roger said before he even caught his breath.

John couldn’t wipe the grin off of his face. “No, you didn’t.”

John started walking his bike away before Roger had a chance to respond. He walked off of the gravel and towards the tree where someone long before them had strung up a swing.

“Yes, I did!” Roger’s voice was shrill where John left him.

“Don’t be a sore loser,” John called behind himself as he leaned his bike against the tree.

He heard Roger drop his bike carelessly in the grass before he ran up beside him.

Roger had a few inches on John, and he used them all to his full advantage as he placed his hands on his hips and looked down his nose. “Don’t be a prick or I won’t share.”

“Share what?” John asked incredulously.

Roger’s eyes lit up. He reached in the patch pocket of his jean shirt and carefully pulled out a single cigarette. It was long and skinny with its tan filter barred from the white paper by a thin band of gold foil. John’s jaw dropped and he looked at Roger with wide eyes.

“Where did you get that?” John whispered as if the cigarette would disappear from between Roger’s thumb and pointer finger if he spoke too loud.

“Nicked it from my mum,” Roger said with a proud smile.

“She won’t notice it’s missing?”

Roger shrugged all too casually for someone whose mother would certainly kill him for stealing her cigarettes. “I reckon not.”

John’s eyes darted around the lookout. “I dunno, Rog…”

“Come on,” Roger egged him on as he took a seat on the swing, “are you gonna be a baby or are you gonna try it with me?”

John bristled. “I’m not a baby.”

Roger smirked and John knew he fell right into his trap. He watched as Roger dug a matchbook out of his pocket and held it out along with the cigarette.

“Prove it.”

Those two words were kryptonite for both of them. More sacred than even the triple-dog dare, they held a challenge from which neither of them could back down. John narrowed his eyes as he took the items out of Roger’s hand. He sat down on a large root and leaned back against the trunk of the tree.

Even though he had never done it before, he had watched his dad light up a cigarette enough times that he figured it shouldn’t be that difficult. He stuck the cigarette in his mouth and took a match out of the book.

The match hovered over the flint as he hesitated to strike it. He looked up from his task and Roger was still way too smug. So, with a newfound determination, he lit the match and brought it up to the cigarette and sucked in.

And… it wasn’t as bad as he expected. The smoke tasted gross, but that was it. He blew it out and looked at Roger who was now decidedly less smug and decidedly more shocked. John decided to take another drag for good measure.

And that’s when he realized he didn’t actually breathe it in properly the first time. The smoke burned his throat all the way down and set fire inside his entire rib cage. John took the cigarette out of his mouth, and for the next minute the only thing he could hear besides his coughing and sputtering was Roger’s raucous laughter. By the time he could breathe again, he felt like he wanted to throw up.

“You try it if you think you’re so much better!” John exclaimed as he held the cigarette at arm’s length.

Roger was still laughing when he took the cigarette and brought it to his lips. John crossed his arms and glowered as Roger took an unnecessarily long drag. Then, his frown turned into a laugh of his own when Roger grimaced like he was about to be sick. He blew the smoke out of his mouth and John laughed harder at the concerted effort etched across Roger’s face in his struggle not to cough.

“Whatever,” Roger muttered, throwing the cigarette into the grass and stamping it out with his foot. “Shit’s stupid, anyway.”

“Sure, you big baby,” John needled.

Roger leapt off the swing. “You take that back!”

John giggled as he scrambled to his feet. He pretended to consider it for a moment before he shouted, “No!” and took off running across the lookout. 

**♌︎** **\- 1962 -** **♌︎**

The overhead fans did little to bring any sort of relief to the sticky heat that hung in the overcrowded room. Roger tugged at the collar of his scratchy button up and fiddled with the cufflinks on his ill-fitted suit jacket.

He dared a glance to his right. John was in the exact same position he was in a minute before, five minutes before, twenty minutes before: back straight against the wall, face unmoving, eyes trained across the room. Anyone might think he was a statue if not for the small rise and fall of his shoulders as he took slow, steady breaths.

Roger followed John’s gaze, though he already knew exactly where it led.

He couldn’t see it at the moment; too many people were crowded in front. But every so often, he caught a glimpse: the shiny dark wood veneer, the spray of red roses, the tufted satin lining of the lid.

John hadn’t gone up yet. Roger glanced up at the ornate clock on the wall. Visitation would be over soon.

“Do you think you’re ready?” Roger asked quietly.

John didn’t break his gaze from the casket. For a moment, Roger thought John might not have heard him, or was ignoring him, but then John shook his head. It was the tiniest movement, but it was there.

Roger let out a shaky breath. He wasn’t too keen on going up either, but he knew John would regret it if he didn’t. Well, he didn’t know that for sure, but that’s what people always said, so he figured it must be true.

Roger gathered up all of his courage before he said, “I’ll go with you.”

John finally looked up at Roger. “You will?”

His voice barely came out as a whisper.

Roger really, _really_ didn’t want to go up to the casket. But he couldn’t make John go alone. So he held his hand out and nodded. John looked at his hand for a moment before he finally grabbed it. His grip was so tight that it squished Roger’s fingers together.

Roger began to slowly walk across the room. About halfway there, he was able to see Mr. Deacon’s face poke out of the top of the casket. John stopped short behind him and Roger almost stumbled into some old lady. He looked back and saw John staring wide-eyed at the casket, his breaths quick and shallow.

Roger didn’t know what to do. He tried tugging on John’s arm, but that did nothing. He tried squeezing John’s hand, but again nothing.

“Deaky, it’s okay.”

It wasn’t, but Roger didn’t have anything better to say.

He tugged on John’s arm one more time and that finally got him walking again. By the time they made it to the casket, John was holding onto Roger’s hand so hard that it hurt. He heard John’s breath catch on itself, but he didn’t look at him.

Roger was rigid, staring at Mr. Deacon’s face. Analyzing it, almost. Mr. Deacon’s jaw was set tight and his cheeks were weirdly puffy. He had his wire-framed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose even though he didn’t need them anymore. Roger was thankful for them. They made him look a little more normal.

Roger couldn’t look at his face too long, so instead he studied the rings Mr. Deacon wore; his wedding band didn’t make it past the second knuckle of his swollen finger. He thought about how the gold band was scuffed up instead of thinking about how Mr. Deacon used to help them pitch a tent in the back garden when they wanted to go “camping”, or how he would make them popcorn fresh on the stove or how they could hear him singing off-key to the radio when he had a big project spread out on the dining table.

He thought about the small stain on Mr. Deacon’s blue and white striped tie instead of thinking about how Mr. Deacon wouldn’t be able to sneak them out for ice cream anymore or pack an extra cookie in John’s lunch sack for Roger or tell them scary stories. He thought about how Mr. Deacon used to complain about how hot that suit was in the summer sun instead of thinking about the fact that in a few short hours, Mr. Deacon would be buried in the cold, damp ground. He thought about how cakey the makeup looked on Mr. Deacon’s skin instead of thinking about the fact that in a few short months, Mr. Deacon would be bones.

He thought about those things, because if he let anything else run through his mind, he would cry. And he couldn’t cry. He was a teenager now. Well, he had been a teenager for all of one month, but that still meant something. It meant he had to be the strong one. He had to. For John, he had to.

Roger tore his eyes away and looked at John. He was shaking like a leaf. He looked like he had seen a ghost. Maybe he had.

“Do you want to go outside?” Roger asked.

John looked up at Roger, his green eyes full of terror. That was all the answer Roger needed. He tugged on John’s hand and began walking them towards the door. John blindly followed.

As soon as they got outside, John loosened his tie and slumped against the brick wall. The heat wasn’t any better, but at least they could breathe easier. Roger bounced on the balls of his feet and tried to think of what to do.

Finally, he asked, “Do you want to stay here or do you want to leave?”

“Mum will be mad at me if I skip the service,” John said in a feeble voice.

“Do _you_ want to go to the service?” Roger asked carefully.

John picked his head up, and for the first time that day he had tears in his eyes. He quickly looked to the sky and blinked them away. He closed his eyes and let his head thunk back onto the wall, the warm sunshine looking way too cheerful as it cast down onto his face.

Roger saw more than heard his lips form the word, “No.”

“Let’s go then,” Roger said. “I’ll take the blame if your mum gets mad.”

Roger didn’t wait for John to respond before he walked them over to the bike rack. He unlocked his bike and swung his leg over, steadying it as John hopped up onto the handle bars. Roger took one more look at the doors of the funeral home before he pushed off and rode out of the car park. John didn’t look back.

The sun was high in the sky and Roger’s shirt was soaked through to his jacket by the time they made it to the base of the lookout. John hopped off of the handlebars and trailed alongside Roger as he walked his bike up the incline. Once they got to the top, Roger leaned his bike against the picnic table and discarded his jacket and tie on top. When he turned around, John was already sitting on the swing, his jacket in a heap on the grass next to him.

John was tall enough that his feet touched the ground and he just barely swayed back and forth on the swing, the toe of his dress shoe digging into the dirt for leverage. For a moment, Roger imagined him to be an automaton that had been abandoned; his gears slowly grinding to a stop, doomed to spend an eternity where he stuttered still once and for all. If it rained, John might have begun to rust.

Tentatively, Roger walked into the shade of the tree and sat back against its trunk. He picked at the blades of grass and tore them down the middle. He thought John would have cried by now. Roger had cried when his mum first told him the news. He waited until he was in the shower to do it - when the water could hide his tears - but still, he did it.

A part of him wished John would cry. Then he could at least hug him and tell him to let it out. He didn’t know what to do to help the shell of his friend swinging in front of him.

So he didn’t do anything. He let the silence stretch on between them until Roger wasn’t sure how much time had passed. Was the funeral over? Was Mr. Deacon buried yet? Was Mrs. Deacon royally pissed off that her son and his best friend had snuck out? If she was, Roger didn’t care. John deserved some peace and quiet away from the pitying eyes and do-gooder adults who littered the funeral home.

“Dad was meant to show me how to fix the telly this weekend.”

Roger jumped at John’s voice. He looked up from the grass. John was still staring somewhere in the middle distance. If his voice hadn’t been so clear, Roger would have believed he hadn’t said a thing at all.

At least he finally spoke, though Roger didn’t know how to respond.

After a minute, he came up with, “Maybe we can figure it out together.”

John looked at Roger. His gaze was on him for only the briefest moment and he offered a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He moved his head again and looked to where his feet touched the ground.

“Yeah, maybe,” John said. Roger had to strain to hear him.

**♌︎** **\- 1964 -** **♌︎**

“I’m telling you, they do a G chord here.”

“And I’m telling you, you’re wrong.”

“Roger, are you deaf or just dumb?”

John felt Roger’s guitar pick hit the side of his nose. He picked it off of the rumpled blue bedsheet and flung it back, but his aim was terrible and it hit the window behind Roger with a soft _tick_ before it clattered onto the window ledge.

“Nice aim,” Roger jeered.

John rolled his eyes and went back to strumming the G chord. “You’re just bitter cause you know I’m right.”

Roger mock-mouthed John’s words back at him before he strummed the C on his own acoustic and started humming to drown out John’s playing. John paid it no mind.

After a few minutes of a headache-inducing bullfight, Roger finally stopped his strumming and closed his fist around his fretboard. John looked up, ready to accept his victory when Roger asked, “What time is it?”

John furrowed his brow and looked behind himself at Roger’s alarm clock. “Half six. Why?”

Roger went bug-eyed and he practically threw his guitar down on the bed in his haste to get up. “Shit, I have to get ready.”

“For what?” John asked.

“Remember that girl Amanda I was telling you about?”

Yeah, John remembered. Roger wouldn’t shut up about her for days after he met her working at some corner store. John kept his focus on his fretboard. He bit down on his lip and grunted in substitute for a response.

“Well, I finally wore her down.”

John couldn’t keep the tone out of his voice when he said, “Seriously?”

“Yeah. Mum’s even letting me drive her car if you’ll believe it,” Roger said. “I think she’s just trying to one-up dad, if I’m being honest.”

John scoffed and looked up from his guitar, abandoning the melody he was picking out. “You’re going to shag in your mum’s car?”

“If I’m lucky.” Roger winked. He stripped off his t-shirt and threw it in the direction of his ever-present pile of laundry as he walked to his dresser. “You should see her, she’s really fit.”

John didn’t quite hear that last part. He was too busy staring at the way Roger’s shoulder blades moved as he opened the drawer to his dresser. He tore his eyes away and bit down hard on the inside of his cheek as if that would stop the redness that was creeping into his face.

“That’s gross, Roger,” John mumbled.

“Oh, don’t act like such a bloody virgin, Deaky.” Roger laughed as he threw a button down over his shoulders.

John looked back up, an inexplicable anger bubbling up in his throat. “Piss off!”

Roger finally turned back around to face him. John avoided his gaze as he got off the bed and took his guitar strap off his shoulder.

“Christ, what’s got you so bothered?”

“Nothing,” John said, because really, there was nothing to be bothered by. At least nothing aside from Roger being a twat, but that was normal. Still, John made quick work of packing his guitar and zipping up the case. “I have to go anyway.”

“I’ll see you this weekend, yeah?” Roger asked.

“No, I’m meant to look after Julie,” John said quickly. He slung his guitar case over his back and walked to the door, ignoring the confused look on Roger’s face. “Have fun tonight.”

John raced out of the house, barely uttering a goodbye to Ms. Winifred before he burst onto the pavement. His heart pounded in his ears the entire walk home.

By the time he made it to his room, hot tears pricked at his eyes. John shoved his guitar into the corner of his room and flopped down onto his bed. His cheeks burned and his heart refused to slow down. His popcorn ceiling blurred into a watery mess until John pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and sucked in a deep breath.

“It’s a fucking G chord,” he muttered to no one.

**♌︎** **\- 1966 -** **♌︎**

Roger was starting to get pissed. He had lost John close to an hour ago and had no luck finding him. The house they were at wasn’t even all that big, but it was dark and stuffed full of teenagers and John had a funny way of disappearing when he felt like it.

After circling through the common room and back garden for the third time in ten minutes, Roger spotted a girl in John’s year hovering near the hallway. 

“Hey, have you seen John anywhere?” Roger asked as soon as he got her attention.

“John who?” The girl spoke up over the music.

“Deacon.”

“Oh.” The girl’s lips curled into a smirk as she not-so-subtly tried to bite back a giggle. “Might want to check the basement, hon.”

Roger didn’t know what to say to that, so he gave her a short nod and walked to the basement. The door was cracked open and he could hear the Stones drifting through; it clashed with the poppy Beatles music playing in the common room. He pushed the door open and rolled his eyes when he saw the multicolored lights glowing at the bottom of the stairs.

He cursed under his breath when he got down into the basement and saw what could only be described as an acid-induced teenage wasteland. As he made his way past strangers making out on a torn beanbag, some girl entranced by the tufts of the shag rug, and two guys having a heated, quiet debate on God only knew, Roger hoped against hope that the girl upstairs was wrong.

Roger made it to the back wall, a mixture of relief and festering frustration roiling inside of him when he still didn’t find John, just some bloke on the couch with a girl grinding in his lap.

Then, Roger realized that bloke on the couch _was_ John. And Roger’s frustration boiled over into blind anger.

“Bloody hell, Deaky, are you joking?” Roger practically yelled before he could stop himself.

John extracted himself from the girl’s mouth with an obscene slurp, a thin string of spit hanging down from his slack and bruised lips. The girl giggled and wiped it away before she turned back and gave Roger a disgusted once-over. Roger swallowed down against the sudden urge to throw up.

“Rog?” John blinked a few times as if Roger was an apparition. “What are you doing here?”

Roger ignored his question. “How much have you had to drink?”

John’s eyes glazed over as he actually made an effort to think. After a moment too long, he looked up at Roger with a funny grin on his face. “I dunno.”

“Christ.” Roger scrubbed his hands down his face. “Okay, we’re leaving.”

John laughed - actually laughed at him - and said, “No, thank you.”

“Ignore him,” the girl murmured as she tangled her hands back in John’s shaggy hair.

John did just that and dragged her in closer by her hips as their lips reconnected. Roger couldn’t believe his eyes. And he had just enough alcohol in him that he couldn’t feel embarrassed when he acted on instinct and flicked John’s forehead to break them up again.

John made a noise of protest as he looked up at Roger. “What the hell was that for?”

“I said we’re leaving.”

“No, we’re fucking not.”

“Yes, we are, mate,” Roger said before he finally addressed the girl who had made herself at home in his friend’s lap. “You can go.”

The girl rolled her eyes but climbed off of John. She grabbed her drink off the coffee table and Roger barely caught her muttering something about poufs under her breath as she left. He chose to ignore that.

When he turned back around, John was glaring at him.

“Come on,” Roger said as he made to heave John off of the couch, but John slapped his hand away and stood up himself.

John (rather dramatically, in Roger’s opinion) adjusted his trousers and marched across the basement and up the steps. Roger followed close behind and made sure they actually left the party.

Once they were on the pavement, Roger crossed his arms over himself and kicked at the rocks with his blue converse. John stumbled ahead of him in silence. They both stewed in their respective bubbles until Roger spoke up.

“Stop making me act like your older brother. It’s fucking weird.”

“I’m not making you do anything,” John bit back. “You’re the one hellbent on babying me.”

“You’re drunk off your mind, mate!” Roger yelled, unphased to the families trying to get a good night’s sleep in their perfect little houses on their perfect little block. “I’m trying to look out for you.”

“Well, get over yourself, Rog.” John laughed - bitter and unfeeling - and carried on walking. “I don’t need you to look out for me.”

“Really? Cause you were about to fuck some random bird right on the damn couch. It was embarrassing to watch,” Roger practically spat out onto the pavement.

“Like you’re one to bloody talk.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

John stopped and turned his head over his shoulder. The look he shot Roger could have made him wither into dust were it possible. Underneath the alcohol and anger and spite, an undeniable hurt burned in John’s eyes.

John opened his mouth like he was about to speak, but then he shook his head, turned back around and began walking. Or, at least he tried to. He tripped over nothing and would have planted right into the concrete were Roger not a good friend and lunged forward to catch him.

Roger wrapped one hand around John’s waist and put the other on his shoulder as he got John upright again. John twisted around in his grasp and sucked in a breath. His eyes looked unnervingly clear as they searched all over Roger’s face like he was praying for some sort of answer that Roger didn’t know the question to. Then, his expression morphed into something ugly as he roughly shook Roger’s hands off of his body. Roger flinched.

“I don’t need your help,” John said, his voice low and seething.

Roger stood where John left him. John was halfway down the block by the time Roger shook himself out of it and jogged to catch up. And for all his squawking about having to play babysitter, he still made sure to walk John home, waiting until he was over the fence and safely through his bedroom window before continuing his own journey.

He stuffed his hands in his jean pockets and kept his head ducked low as he walked through the balmy night. The whole way, Roger felt a pit in his stomach, heavy and dense and rolling around and he wanted to scream as if that might eject it out of him once and for all.

**♌︎** **\- 1967 -** **♌︎**

John blinked back the bleariness in his eyes as he joined the wiring on his dissected radio. He heard a knock on his door and looked over his shoulder to find Roger standing in the doorway. John smiled, overwhelmed with the wave of happiness and melancholy that washed over him at the sight, knowing it was the last time he would see it for a while.

“I thought you couldn’t hang out tonight,” John said, putting the electrical tape back on his desk.

Roger shrugged as he entered the room. “Nevermind that.”

That was a good enough answer for John and he turned around all the way as Roger closed the door and tossed his backpack onto the bed.

“I come bearing gifts,” Roger continued, unzipping his backpack and digging around inside.

John laughed. “I thought I was supposed to get you the parting gift.”

“Consider it a belated birthday present, then,” Roger said. He finally withdrew his hand and presented John with a handle of bottom shelf vodka. “Figured it’ll last you ‘till I get home for Christmas.”

“Always looking out for me,” John teased as he accepted the bottle. He pretended not to notice the way Roger’s face flushed.

“Yeah, well…”

“Should we crack it open, then?” John said quickly to fill the space. “I’m sure mum is going to sleep soon, so…”

Roger cracked a smile. “I’ve got a better idea. Get your shoes on.”

John looked at him curiously, but complied. He stashed the vodka underneath a pile of clothes at the back of his closet and grabbed the first matching pair of trainers he could find. John quickly told his mum they were going for a drive and the next thing they were in Roger’s beat up old car, fighting over the radio station.

Roger won on the basis that it was his car and he was driving and John could play whatever the hell radio station he wanted in his own car. John thought that argument was stupid but conceded nonetheless. He made a mental note to find a station that played only funk and blast it the next time he gave Roger a ride.

John stayed quiet and watched Roger as he sang along to the radio and drummed on the steering wheel. He got so caught up in the way he smiled when he managed to hit the high notes that he didn’t even notice where Roger was taking them until they were already there.

John gasped when he looked out the window as the car made it up the steady incline. Roger stopped singing and poked his tongue between his teeth. John didn’t say anything. He simply looked back out the window and fought down the bubbly feeling threatening to fizz out from between his ribs.

When they made it to the top, Roger turned off the car and the radio cut out. Neither of them said anything for a long while, an unfamiliar nervous energy filling up the small space, and for once, it was John who broke the silence.

“Haven’t been up here in a while.”

Roger shrugged. “I was feeling nostalgic.”

“Okay, grandpa,” John teased to cover up just how touched he was. From the way Roger smiled and shook his head, John knew he understood.

John was the first to get out of the car. He kicked some loose gravel under his feet as walked towards the tree. The grass came up to his ankles and he had to be careful of the glass bottles and beer cans that littered the ground. The swing was snapped. On closer inspection, it looked like someone had cut through the rope. John touched the worn and frayed ends.

When he turned back, Roger was leaning against the car door, looking out over their old kingdom. John walked to the picnic table and sat on top, resting his feet on the bench that remained.

They’d never been up at the lookout at night. The stars were a lot more visible from where he sat than down in the city. Distant lights twinkled below and made up a flat skyline. John shivered as the unobstructed wind touched his bare arms. He smiled to himself when he heard gravel crunching behind him as Roger got nearer.

***

Roger sat down on top of the picnic table next to John, planting his feet on the seat and hunching over his lap. The air felt a lot clearer, the space around them lighter than inside the car. Roger picked at the skin around his nails and looked at John. His features were twinged with a sadness neither of them had control over.

“I can’t believe I’m stuck here for two more years while you get to go off galavanting around London,” John said, leaning back on his hands and looking up at the sky.

“You know I’ll come back and visit.”

“You better,” John mumbled as if Roger would ever break that promise.

Roger reached out and tentatively placed his hand over top of John’s, wrapping the tips of his fingers around the side of his palm. John looked down at their hands and then up at Roger’s face. His eyes lingered for a moment before he looked out over their town again.

John rolled his bottom lip between his teeth in the way that Roger knew he was turning something over in his head, deciding whether or not to come out with it. Roger could feel his fingers twitch underneath his hand.

“You better not get any new best friends in London,” John said out to the dropoff.

Roger couldn’t help but smile.

He squeezed John’s hand and said, “What, are you gonna get jealous?”

“Yes,” John huffed petulantly. Roger almost laughed.

“Well, I guess I’ll have to lead a lonely, miserable existence for the next two years,” Roger said, running his thumb across the back of John’s hand. “For your sake.”

“That’s only fair,” John said.

John looked at Roger, a ghost of a smile on his lips, his eyes dark in the shadow of the night. Roger could count every single one of John’s eyelashes if he wanted to and he could see the patchy stubble on John’s cheeks where he hadn’t shaved for a few days. His eyes moved down and he watched as John’s lips faded back into their permanent pout.

Heat prickled the back of Roger’s neck. The crickets hiding in the grass became impossibly loud. So loud in fact, that Roger almost didn’t hear John when he asked,

“What’s wrong?”

Roger snapped his eyes back up to John’s.

“Nothing.”

He snatched his hand away from John’s and shifted on the table, putting space between them. He pressed his lips together between his teeth, the dull pain giving him something to focus on. And although he would never say it out loud, he was very, very thankful that he would soon have entire cities separating him and John before he did something impossibly stupid.

**♌︎** **\- 1969 -** **♌︎**

“Thanks again,” Roger said.

John looked up from the guts of the amp he was working on. He accepted the bottle of beer from Roger’s outstretched hand before Roger joined him on the living room floor. 

“It’s just a blown wire, nothing major.”

“I know, but Brian’s been bitching about it all week like it wasn’t his own damn fault the thing broke.”

John huffed a laugh and went back to his task. He leaned forward on his knees, though he didn’t really need to get any closer to the amp; he just needed to get away from the warmth radiating from the close proximity of his friend.

An unfamiliar awkwardness buzzed between them - had been buzzing between them for a while. It was easier to ignore when John still lived back home, but now that they were in the same city, it seemed to overtake every interaction.

John worked in silence. He could hear every single noise around him: the rip of the electrical tape, the soft rustle of Roger’s jeans when he shifted his legs, a rolling screw on the coffee table, the swish of the beer as Roger took a drink. He became hyper-aware of it all, like his subconscious was waiting for something in particular.

“John?”

John almost dropped the screwdriver he was holding. He hummed in response without chancing a look back at Roger.

“Deaky, seriously.” 

John tensed at the tone of Roger’s voice. He took a deep breath and turned around. “What is it?”

Roger rolled his eyes. He drained the last of his beer, sucking on his teeth when he brought the bottle down from his lips.

“Are we ever going to talk about… all this?” Roger asked, gesturing between them.

John swore his heart stopped in his chest. He turned back to the amp and pretended to inspect the wiring he already twisted together.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” John mumbled as he double checked all of the outputs.

“Stop that,” Roger said and John just shook his head. “I’m not kidding, I’m bloody tired of this.”

John’s hands trembled as he wrapped more electrical tape around the wire, just to be safe. “Of what?”

“ _This._ ” Roger emphasized the word as if that answered all of John’s questions. “Whatever we’re doing, this- this… this ignoring or whatever.”

“You’re making no sense.” John bundled the wires together with a zip tie. 

“John, I swear to fucking God, don’t pull that shit.”

John snapped his head around. “Alright then, if you have something to say, just say it!”

Roger stared at him. It took everything inside of John not to shrink under his gaze. All of the noise sucked out of the room as John waited for Roger to do… something.

They teetered on the edge of a razor. On one side, they could laugh it all off; go back to normal - or whatever normal they’d recently found themselves in. On the other side, they’d have to face something that John hadn’t even come to terms with himself yet.

John didn’t know which he’d prefer.

But apparently there was a third option that John wasn’t even aware of, but that’s what Roger chose. Roger calmly set his beer bottle onto the floor before he got up and stalked over to his room, slamming the door behind him.

John’s jaw dropped and a flash of anger lit up his spine and coursed out through his fingertips. He got up and marched to the door, his feet moving of their own accord as if his body had made the decision for him.

“Rog, that’s not fair,” John yelled, flicking his long hair over his shoulder and pounding his fist against the door. “Open the damn door.”

He pressed his ear to the door and listened. He couldn’t hear anything behind it which meant Roger was most likely sitting on the bed staring at the door like a right bastard.

“Roger!” John exclaimed, just barely stopping himself from stamping his foot on the ground. “Stop throwing a tantrum, you’re not a child.”

John pounded the door again until a few seconds later it flew open and he was met with a red-faced and angry Roger.

No. It wasn’t anger. It was--

Roger surged forward. Before John could comprehend what happened, Roger wrapped his hand around the nape of his neck and pulled him in. The force of it knocked John off balance and he grabbed onto Roger’s shoulders to right himself. John was shock-still, his lips tense. And then just as quickly, Roger broke away, a look of abject horror written across his face.

“Oh my God.” Roger snatched his hand out of John’s hair. “Oh my God, John, I am so sorry. Fuck, I- I- please don’t--”

“Shut up,” John said, his brain still trying to catch up with what just happened. “Just shut up a second.”

“Dea--”

“Shut it.”

John dug his fingers into Roger’s shoulders. He hadn’t torn his eyes away from Roger’s lips since they left his. He found he didn’t want to.

Maybe that was why he didn’t think when he grabbed Roger’s face with both hands and kissed him back. Roger froze but John was insistent. He wrapped his arms around Roger’s neck and pressed in as close as he possibly could. Finally, Roger brought his hands down and grabbed onto John’s waist.

And it felt wrong.

It felt wrong in the way that smoking that cigarette felt wrong. It felt wrong in the way that sneaking out for parties and trying his first joint felt wrong. It felt wrong in the way that sent a thrill down his spine, that made him want more.

And that absolutely fucking terrified him.

He didn’t even realize he was crying until a salty tear dripped onto their lips. Roger pulled away.

“Deaky, are you--”

“Roger, I’m so scared,” John said before he could even think to stop himself.

Roger went white. “Of me?”

“No!” John said quickly, grabbing onto the front of Roger’s shirt. “No, of- I really fucking fancy you, but it- it’s wrong.”

John’s own breath stuttered at the admission. He expected Roger to push away from him, hate him, call him a coward, or a myriad of other awful, horrible things that fired across his brain. What he didn’t expect was for Roger to say,

“No, it’s not,” so gently it only made John cry harder.

“It’s illegal. For both of us,” John argued.

“It’s a bullshit law,” Roger said like it was obvious.

John dropped his head to Roger’s shoulder. He felt one of Roger’s hands thread through his hair while the other rubbed circles into his back. John felt so impossibly young and clueless, and maybe he was. But maybe Roger was, too.

And there, in the middle of Roger’s narrow hallway, John finally admitted to himself the real reason he held back all those years. It wasn’t because Roger was older and it wasn’t that he was more mature (because really, he wasn’t). It wasn’t even that Roger was another bloke, though that definitely complicated things. In the end, the answer was so simple that it was almost laughable.

“I don’t want to lose you,” John whispered into the crook of Roger’s neck.

Roger squeezed John tight. John brought his arms back around Roger’s neck and held on like he was his lifeline.

“That will never happen,” Roger said. John believed him.

“Pinky swear,” John said anyway, smiling when he felt Roger’s hand leave his back. John held out his pinky and snorted a laugh when he felt Roger hook their fingers together.

“Listen, Deaky, we don’t have to figure this out tonight,” Roger said. John nodded as best he could on Roger’s shoulder.

“But for the record…” Roger paused and shifted his hand so he could hold John’s properly. “I really fancy you, too.”

John’s heart fluttered and he let out a shaky breath. He picked his head back up and looked at Roger, his eyes full of the same uncertainty and hope and fear that he himself felt.

Young and clueless. Maybe that didn’t have to be a bad thing.

Tentatively, John brought his hand to Roger’s cheek. He felt the warmth of his skin before he leaned in and captured Roger’s lips between his own. Roger placed his hand on top of John’s and held him just that little bit closer. It didn’t feel so wrong that third time around. In fact, it felt familiar and warm, like he was coming home.

When they finally broke away, Roger pressed his forehead to John’s, his eyes on the floor, rubbing his thumb over the small of John’s back. John giggled, the butterflies inside of his chest making their great escape. Roger giggled as well and John wrapped both arms around him as if to hold that sound forever. A silly little smile found its way onto John’s face and he didn’t care to wipe it away.

When Roger picked his head back up, he was smiling, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading <3 I love coming of age stories, so I had so much fun writing this. Not gonna lie, this is the fic I'm proudest of this week. It took a lot of puzzling with and a lot of changes from the outline to the final draft, but I'm so so happy with the direction it went and where it ended up. Anyway, I hope you liked it, too!


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